


How like the nettle are so many men

by howbadcanmyficsbe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Seine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howbadcanmyficsbe/pseuds/howbadcanmyficsbe
Summary: To feel an ache in his chest was hardly unfamiliar. In the months following his brawl with the Seine, Javert was no stranger to untraceable pains; his broken ribs and water-logged lungs had seen to it that his recovery was one long and agonizing. Though, it was not any more agonizing than the mental anguish, the spiritual torment of waking almost every day to Jean Valjean at his bedside.Yet, when Javert felt a pain rise in his breast, he thought it most odd.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 13
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this several months ago after several conversations with @polygonndust and @famousinthatanonymousway on Twitter (all the way back in December, good god). Taking some liberties here because I've only read one hanahaki AU in my entire life and am usually not a fan, but I loved the idea of it with Valvert :') 
> 
> Huge HUGE thanks to Claire for reading my rambling drafts of this. Literally don't know how I would write anything coherent without you.

_“‘…With even the minimum of care, the nettle would be useful. Neglected, it becomes a nuisance. So we kill it. How like the nettle are so many men!’ He added after a pause, ‘My friends, remember this: there are no such things as bad plants or bad men. There are only bad farmers.’”_

Les Misérables, 1.5.3.

To feel an ache in his chest was hardly unfamiliar. In the months following his brawl with the Seine, Javert was no stranger to untraceable pains; his broken ribs and water-logged lungs had seen to it that his recovery was one long and agonizing. Though, it was not any more agonizing than the mental anguish, the spiritual torment of waking almost every day to Jean Valjean at his bedside. 

Yet, when Javert felt a pain rise in his breast, he thought it most odd. He stopped, pausing for a moment near a streetlamp, and pressed his palm lightly over his heart. The walk to his apartment from Valjean’s house was a sizable one, but was manageable enough. That night, he had left Rue Plumet after a quiet, but pleasant dinner with Valjean. This had become habit for Javert, to call upon the former convict each week as if he were reporting to a superior. However, it was quickly becoming a misrepresentation of the exact nature of their meetings. At first, yes, it was an obligation, to assure Valjean of his well being and keep him from storming into Javert’s quarters asking after his health. Now, rather than barking out an account of his week’s activities and the progress of his work, it was a shared meal between equals. Friends, perhaps. 

Javert had never once found anyone he might call a friend. Coworkers were another matter, though he never developed any sort of personal relationship outside of work with them. For much of his life, there was nothing outside of work to speak of. It was everything, his every waking moment; he had nothing apart from sleeping and eating and ensuring that the rent would be paid. As far as Javert was concerned, that _was_ his life. 

It was strange now, to find himself treasuring his spare time, dedicating himself to something other than authority. He supposed it was only natural, given that the authority of society had become, inexplicably, secondary in his priorities. Secondary to an impossibly high, invisible power: mercy, kindness, good will. And so, in the little leisure he was able to obtain, he spent it in the company of Valjean. 

For all that was so confounding about him, Valjean was solid, stable in the horrific uncertainty of walking that new path. And, to Javert’s shock, he was agreeable in conversation, in the way he could ask pointed questions and gently comfort in the same breath. At the same time, Javert found himself defensive of Valjean, reassuring him of his daughter’s obvious devotion to him, attempting to convince him to take up her offer to house him. On one occasion, he found Valjean, after a week of his absence, withering away without food, content to leave his daughter orphaned in a fit of unnecessary martyrdom. Javert had never been more furious; he coaxed him, as gentle as was possible for Javert, back into the world of the living. For all his frustrations with Valjean, Javert was intimately familiar with the wiles of self-destruction. The belief that saving another could come from it. 

And so the visits had become just as much a need for Valjean to assess his state as they were for Javert to assess Valjean’s. They had spent the last few months in that odd state, orbiting closer and closer until their lives had collided with frequency. At least three times a week now he visited Valjean, reading, eating, gardening. Spending time talking, arguing, sitting in comfortable silence. Yes, Javert supposed he had every right to call Valjean a friend; though, he still found it unprecedented that Valjean should want to associate with him, to break bread with a man who would once ruin him. It was far more than he rightly deserved. 

Deeply, Javert inhaled and let out a measured breath. His lungs were no longer those of a young man, and much more so given the damage they had sustained nearly a year prior. The fall would haunt him for the years to come, the doctor had told him–the cane he presently leaned on was proof enough–but he was certainly lucky to be breathing at all. 

As he breathed, there seemed to be no blockage, as normal as one could hope. But still, a dull pain permeated his chest. Javert thought of the night spent with Valjean. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, a simple dinner followed by an hour or two of reading. It was not so much reading on both their parts, but Javert taking well-hidden pleasure in the sound of Valjean’s voice reading a novel aloud. His immense dislike of reading for entertainment’s sake had been slowly tempered at Valjean’s insistence; he now often found himself dozing peacefully to the rhythm of Valjean’s words. 

On that particular night, they had taken the opportunity to indulge in a book of poetry Valjean had received as a gift from his daughter. Informed of their routine, she saw fit to provide them with a new source of material. Javert agreed to humor her, and let the steady meter wash over him as the fireplace crackled with warm life. 

Valjean’s attentions were focused intently on the page, molding the verses in his mouth and letting them free for Javert’s awaiting ears. They sat in chairs opposite one another, flanking the fire. The orange glow illuminated the edges of Valjean, casting him in unearthly light, his white hair stark in the darkened sitting room. His posture was content, his face relaxed as he turned another page, and Javert could not help but rake his eyes over his hands as he smoothed over the paper. They were calloused, to be sure, but his touch was as delicate, fluttering gracefully as a butterfly. He wondered, distantly, if his fingers were as hardened as they appeared, or if his unending kindness would bring softness to a caress. And suddenly Valjean was looking up, gazing directly at Javert. 

So content was he that Javert had not realized the extent of his fixations. How long had he gazed so blatantly at his friend, and for how long had Valjean noticed him, staring like a dullard? He could feel himself going flush, an apology stuck in his throat as he felt the weight of Valjean’s stare fall upon him. Soon enough though, any and all thought of speech vacated his mind as Valjean’s face broke into a smile, shy and tender in the way the corners of his mouth slowly turned up. 

Valjean’s smiles came easily, but a true, genuine smile was hard won. It was rare in the way that one might see a shooting star among the lights at night. All were bright, all brilliant, but only a select few were a true spectacle, a sight to behold. It must have been rare in the way that Valjean’s moments of joy were scarce, though he had much more cause to smile as of late. 

To say that the smile had arrested Javert was a gross understatement, regardless of how swiftly it faded. In all fairness, it was an entirely uneventful night. They parted as they always did, with silent nods and Javert’s retrieval of his coats, his hat. Valjean seemed not disturbed by the trespass, promising to send a letter in the coming days. It was all painfully ordinary. 

Grimacing, he shifted more weight to his cane and walked down the darkening street, the ache in his breast looming over him like a silent spectre. 

* * *

Javert woke the next morning to the telltale feeling of illness creeping up his throat. He all but scrambled for a nearby chamber pot, but found nothing willed itself to come up as he sat at the edge of his bed, half freed from a tangle of sheets. Still addled with sleep, his hand wiped sweat from his brow as he swallowed, feeling the sickness momentarily subside upon sitting upright. 

A dull pain still sat upon his chest, dimmed somewhat from the night before. It was only after a hearty swig of piping hot coffee that he came back to himself, and tried to put it from his mind as he prepared for another day of decisions–decisions that never seemed to end. Only the thought of Valjean, what he might say, guided him as he turned each over in his mind. Kindness, thinking at all, was often an instinct, but was just as often a quiet deliberation, a small battle within him. 

The days before he found himself once again at Valjean’s residence were much the same as always. If it suited him, he would feel compelled to discuss such decisions with Valjean, to ask of him his opinion. Valjean was thoughtful in his responses, and did not dare to censor himself. Perhaps any blows were softened, but he never saw fit to lie in an attempt at consolation. The assurance that Valjean valued honesty was consolation enough. 

It was a warm day that Javert was off duty, pleasantly warm for the early season. Begrudgingly, Javert had given his word to lend a hand to Valjean in his sprawling garden. Since his daughter’s leave, he had decided to take upon the task of making it a proper garden, adding a vegetable patch and taming the overgrowth as spring approached in earnest. 

Javert knew full well that Valjean had no need of his help; the man, even at his age, was still teeming with strength, though some of his years had caught up with him. He could see it in the way he straightened after bending down, how his hands would swell with bad weather. So he agreed, yes he would come by and clear some of the brush for him if Valjean would only provide a pair of gloves. No, he had no experience with gardens or farming, and was half afraid he might kill anything he touched. Valjean assured him, laughing, that he would do no such thing. Anyone can learn, he said. All men are farmers at heart. 

As he hesitantly broke away brittle branches, Javert doubted as much. He had none of the careful touch Valjean seemed to bestow upon all living things, only clumsy grasping hands as he trimmed at the bushes before him. Over and over he repeated Valjean’s instructions in his head as he moved downward. Look for the dead branches, look for the dead branches, look for the-

“Oh,” he nearly gasped. 

Underneath a patch of dried leaves he had uncovered a grey bundle, nestled into the dirt under the brush. Rabbits, huddled together and small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He could see them breathing, fast and tiny as they were.

Suddenly his hand hovering over them was being wrenched away. Valjean’s hand was restrained, so unbearably gentle as he pulled him by the wrist. They were crouched next to one another; Valjean had immediately sunk to his knees in the grass, but his eyes were on the creatures. For all Javert knew, the rabbits were gone to the world, for he could only stare at the small smear of dirt on Valjean’s cheek, the curls of white framing his sun-flushed face. All he could feel were Valjean’s calloused, dirt-covered fingers running over the thin, sensitive skin on the underside of his wrist, exposed between the glove and his shirt cuff. 

“Don’t disturb them,” Valjean said, voice lowered as one might around a sleeping child. “The mother might abandon the things if they’re moved.”

The visceral shock came to him then, the sudden but slow realization of it all, the awareness of tenderness building in his chest, like kindling for a fire sure to burst into flame. He thought of Valjean then, a man who so astonishingly could not seem to love himself, seemed to regard himself with a disgust only fit for the most wretched of men. How wrong he was, to have all the compassion in the world for others when he saw himself as nothing more than a sinner. The way he gripped his hand with such care, how Javert wished so to grip him in return. A word came to the surface of his mind, gasping helplessly for air. 

So that was it, then. Love. He wanted to love, or perhaps he loved, Valjean. Was Javert capable of love? Was it love pooling then in his chest, threatening to fill his lungs and drown him yet again?

With that, he found himself doubling over, away from the rabbit’s nest, and coughing into his arm. Valjean startled, his hand moving to clasp his shoulder instead. The low pain in his chest swelled to fullness, sending him into more wracking coughs. 

“Are you alright? Javert?” he said. 

“-fine,” he replied haltingly, another cough overtaking him.

“Sit here, I’ll fetch some water,” Valjean said, tentatively rising and guiding Javert to the nearby iron bench. Everything in his motions was determined, calm, but something at the edge of his voice betrayed his worry. 

And then he was gone, leaving Javert to succumb to another terrible series of coughs. Watching Valjean’s broad back disappear into the house, he allowed himself to give way to them, crumpling forward until a wet cough stopped him abruptly. 

Filled with immediate dread, he pulled his arm away. A tiny spattering of blood rested on his forearm, mingling with the hair and sweat just below where he had rolled his shirtsleeve. Unthinking, he licked the remainder from his lips, iron spreading on his tongue. 

Like pain in his chest, Javert was familiar enough with blood, as all men were. However, what made it alarming was its source, something broken and bloodied coming up from his throat. The sickness after the Seine had been troublesome in his chest, to be sure, but this was unprecedented. Had its dredges lingered in him? Had its grip punctured something in him irreparably even so long after he thought its grip relinquished?

Panic rose in him when he heard Valjean return, his telltale uneven gait ringing out on the stones. He scrambled with his sleeves, rolling them down and buttoning them once more as Valjean bent slightly, offering a cup of water. A hand found his shoulder, far too gentle, and he suppressed the urge to cough yet again. Much too brazenly, he gulped down the glass, washing away the metallic taste clinging to his throat. To his dismay, a trace of it remained even as he finished off the water. Javert thought to thank him, but could hardly trust his lips to form anything other than something wretched, so he sat, breathing tightly through his nose.

Leaving Valjean’s house was much the same. He told himself it was the same. Of course Valjean fretted after him even with repeated assurances of his health as he retrieved his belongings. There was something terribly awkward in the air as Valjean stood behind him in the entryway, insisting he take a cab home to his apartment. Distantly, Javert could feel himself flush—from his attentions? From fever? It hardly mattered as he mumbled agreement and stepped out the door in a haze, hailing a fiacre as if he were in a trance. 

Not until he sat in the carriage did it come to him again in waves. An overwhelming sentiment was settling into his chest, taking root in his heart as he gazed blankly forward. His wrist nearly throbbed where Valjean had touched him, where his kindness made physical contact. And yes, they had touched before, many times when Javert was confined to a bed, for it was an unavoidable task. This too, was an act of utility, pulling his hand away to spare a small life. But still, it was so indescribably tender. Those hands were always gentle, with his garden, with his daughter, with the belligerent policeman dragged back to life. That afternoon was different somehow. No, nothing in Valjean had changed. It was Javert who had so utterly transformed. Love, unheeded and invasive, had infiltrated his heart like a weed. 

At the thought, another urge to cough rose and he acquiesced; he found himself retching harder than before until pain coated his throat and a weight fell into his hand, his chest finally able to breathe. Silently he sat then, breaths coming in ragged and heaving, staring at a flower petal in his palm. It was a bright violet hue, perfect but for the tiny red flecks adorning its edges. 

* * *

“How that boy could survive in a courtroom is beyond me,” Javert said. He watched as his breath came out in white puffs in the night’s chill, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. 

“Inspector Javert is likely more fearsome than any prosecutor,” Valjean said jestingly. “Perhaps you needn’t press him so at the dinner table.”

“If he cannot withstand the pressure of an old man asking simple questions, there is no hope for him,” he replied, indignant. 

At that, Valjean laughed freely. “You are not quite so old,” he mused. 

“The grey spreading past my temples would suggest otherwise,” he retorted, crossing his arms.

“Then that makes two of us.” 

Looking beside him on the carriage seat, he drank in the sight, focusing on the lines around Valjean’s eyes that marked joy made tangible. Dimly, he could surmise that they were more deep set than a mere year ago, though they barely made an appearance in their first tense months together. Now they sat comfortably on his face, as if they were always meant to be there. His chest ached, and he suppressed the urge to cough. Love was a sickening thing, he thought wearily. 

Dinner with Valjean’s daughter was a novel affair, and an uncomfortable one at that. It was not the first night he had spent sipping wine far too expensive, sitting in chairs far too intricate, eating food too far above his status, listening to Gillenormand prattle and Pontmercy fumble in conversation. The only reassurance was the knowledge that Valjean felt the same; he wanted to be there just as little as he. This was why he endured it, why he agreed to the dinners in the first place. Valjean did not so much ask him as he expressed his discomfort with them. He knew of nothing else to do but offer his company, should it be of any help. At the very least, he could prod and steer conversation away from unpleasant topics, fill in for the gaps in which Valjean was too uneasy to speak. Javert was no gentleman, but he found himself willing to do this for Valjean. 

To confide in him was out of the question. Surely Javert had already overstayed his welcome in Valjean’s life as it was. He was too kind to tell him to leave; leaving food out for a starving dog will only keep it coming back for more. As disquieted as Valjean was by his daughter’s newfound family, he must have been tenfold in tolerating Javert’s presence. The idea of burdening Valjean with his insipid feelings was unthinkable. To think anything good would come of such a peril. Preposterous! Valjean would only bestow pity on him, lie to him out of obligation. All the while, he would quietly suffer as unpleasant memories would surface, flooding over any hint of happiness he could have gained in Javert’s modest company. The act would only strain the tenuous thread of friendship between them, perhaps snap it entirely. 

It was not the possibility of being alone again that pained him. It was the thought of Valjean tormented, unable to return the feelings of the beast who would so brazenly force himself onto him, buried underneath the weight of his past. Distance would be best, keeping himself safely chained outside of arm’s length. Javert could admire from a distance, could bask in the warmth of Valjean’s smiles and the melody of his reading voice. It would be enough. 

Involuntarily, he felt a cough rising in his throat; he quashed it halfway through, keeping his mouth shut as he turned away from Valjean. Grimacing, he extracted a violet petal from his mouth and quickly stuffed it into his pocket. 

“Are you alright, Javert?”

“Of course,” he said hoarsely, clearing his throat and making a guise of pulling out his handkerchief. “As well as one can be. Nothing but the change of season.” 

“Are you certain?” Valjean said, scrutinizing him with a most genuine concern. His brows bunched together, his eyes wet, his lips slightly parted as the question hung in the air. It made Javert’s chest ache, another nail hammering into his proverbial coffin. 

Suddenly his gaze snapped up to the carriage’s window. “We’ve arrived,” he said in almost a sigh of relief. They were stopping slowly, pulling up on Rue Plumet. 

“Javert, would you see a doctor?” Valjean asked, ignoring him. “Your cough has been-“

“It really is alright,” he said, already exiting out one side of the carriage. Striding around the fiacre, he wrenched open the door with more force than necessary, facing Valjean with his mouth pressed in a tight line. “I assure you.”

After a moment of doubtful searching in Javert’s eyes, Valjean relented and sighed. He grabbed hold of the door, stepping down carefully. Before Javert could stop himself, he took Valjean’s hand, guiding him down the steps until they were standing together on the street. For much too long he held onto Valjean’s hand, silently memorizing its geography under his glove. It was only a split second, but a second too long that his hand lingered. He cursed himself for it, and treasured the moment all the same when he meant to recoil, to force himself to step aside and retreat back into the promise of refuge in the carriage. 

Yet he stood, frozen in the same spot, for Valjean had not let go of his hand. He looked up into Javert’s eyes, peering through the cravat hiding his chin, the hat lowered over his face. There was a queer expression coloring Valjean’s face, as if he too were mapping some unknowable part of Javert in the smallest of moments. What was worth knowing in such a reprehensible face, he wondered?

“I shall expect you soon?” Valjean asked quietly. 

Javert swallowed. “In a few days time.”

Valjean looked down, averting his eyes with an almost imperceptible smile. “I look forward to it.” He looked up again, only then letting go of Javert’s hand. “Good night, Javert.”

Only when Valjean was safely behind the locked gates did Javert let the cab driver leave. Through the ride, the coughs came back in revenge, sending him slumped over as violet seemed to spill from him, filling his hands with petals until a blossom, whole and fully formed, fell in his lap. Tears at the edge of his eyes blurred his vision as he nearly choked on the confounded thing. Following it came more petals, violet now mixed with a shocking, deep shade of red. Initially, he thought the petals to be entirely covered in blood, until realizing the flowers themselves were a familiar sight, and only so because of their presence in Valjean’s garden. Roses.

The now familiar pain in his chest bloomed again as he paid the driver, careful not to leave any evidence on the floor of the cab. As he crawled into his bed, throwing his coats on the ground in a heap of cloth and flowers, he clutched at his chest, unable to think of anything but the evasive smile on Valjean’s lips.

* * *

There were no vases to be found in Javert’s apartment. His lodgings were sparse to begin with; the man was of few possessions, coveting nothing and no one. Until recently, he supposed. 

So, without a vessel to store them, he hesitantly arranged several petals and three whole blossoms atop his windowsill. They were bright in color and slightly translucent in the sunlight. Of anyone, Javert knew nothing of flowers. Plants were of no interest to him in the way that a table would not capture his attention. It was no more than scenery, either superfluous or a utility. In any case, he had no ability to name the mysterious violet flower with any certainty, and furthermore no inclination. A flower was a flower, alarming no matter its species, alarming that such a thing should emerge from his mouth. Alarming enough to seek out a doctor again? Not so. 

Javert’s dislike of doctors was no small thing. In all the years leading up to the fateful summer of 1832, he had never once been seen by a physician. The price to pay was much more than that of simple funds. His distrust was one of experience; doctors, more often than not, seemed to make any given ailment worse if given the opportunity. When Valjean had smuggled a doctor into his room after his fall, he was fully prepared to seize the man like a rabid animal, perhaps escape through the window even with a broken leg. But over the months, he abided by the slowly lessening visits; they seemed to calm Valjean at the very least, to give him some peace of mind in Javert’s unsteady path back from the brink. In regards to his physical health, in any case. 

Since the beginning of the pains weeks ago, they came and went like the tide. When Javert had finally collapsed in exhaustion the last night he saw Valjean, it throbbed still even as he lost consciousness. In the days since, it had not abated in the slightest. Patrol was agonizing, an insufficient distraction from the physical suffering and his reverberating thoughts, swarming him like a bees’ nest disturbed. There was no settling them once disrupted, no calming their blind fury as they assaulted him without the interest of niceties or respect of his working hours. Every single beggar, every petty thief, every ordinary inspection of the market reminded him of Valjean, inescapable like the rays of the sun. Every decision he made, weighing his options and moral duties, brought him again to mind, an activity which only seemed to promote the agony in his breast. It had become more and more difficult to stop the coughs, lest he choke on the fusillade of flowers coming up his throat. 

When he somehow reached his day off intact, it was with a sense of both blessed relief and horrid dread. It was the day he planned to return to Rue Plumet, to again offer his services in preparing the garden for the emerging spring. He stood in front of the looking glass, assessing himself before his departure. Eyes somewhat sunken, he was otherwise presentable enough, hair tied back neatly and plainclothes freshly laundered. His handkerchief was unfortunately worse for wear, covered in spots of blood and yellow residue from the flowers. Procuring his only spare, he took a final moment to fill his water basin, splashing water on his face until he could convince himself of his ability to keep his composure. 

That morning, he had wretched into a chamber pot, tasting blood sticking tackily on his tongue. 

As he walked gravely down the street, he seethed inwardly. None of this nonsense would have begun if Valjean had left well enough alone, left him to drown as Javert had wished. It was childish to think so spitefully of it, but it was difficult to keep any sense of gratitude with life when a flower shop had seen fit to open up in his chest. Yet Valjean cared enough to see that he lived, to see him do something with the life he would so easily throw aside in misguided resignation. Ensuring that the feeling would not take hold of him, he fixed his attentions instead on the weight of his boots on the street, the chirping of the birds overhead. 

Arriving at Valjean’s door, he stiffly took off his coat and followed Valjean back through the house and into the garden, no longer so unkempt. Today their attention would focus on the old vegetable patch, long since abandoned to overgrowth. 

“Will you return it to its purpose?” Javert asked, taking off his waistcoat and donning a pair of gloves.

“I believe so,” Valjean said. “Though it would be just as lovely to have another flower bed.”

Javert grimaced. “Would you rather not have something useful?”

“It need not be useful to be worthwhile,” he said, a corner of his mouth turning up. “Is pleasure in their beauty not enough?”

“Hardly,” Javert scoffed. 

They bickered for a time as they worked, slowly clearing the dead foliage from the patch of earth, to be collected and turned to compost once the soil was tilled. Valjean explained all of it with a somewhat sad look, any smile not quite reaching his eyes. There were things Javert still did not know, and would not ask of Valjean. Javert only knew of Valjean’s past as a tree pruner from court records, though Valjean had briefly mentioned his time in Petit Picpus; the admission was as much frustrating as it was unbearably amusing to Javert.

Could it have been that he was thinking of the time before his incarceration, of a simpler time? Perhaps it was not so simple, the hardships only transfigured over the years. It was just as likely that he thought of his work in the convent, a time where he must have been his most content, safe from Javert. Guilt tainted his mouth as he swallowed dryly, crouching over the ground with hands buried in old leaves. 

A sound from across the patch brought him out of his reveries; his head whipped up, staring at the source. 

“Valjean,” he said, more worried than he would have liked. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I-“ Valjean said, shocked. “I- well, come here and look.”

Javert stood, moving to where Valjean was kneeling. Something odd in shape sat in the dirt, and Valjean picked it up for Javert to see. 

“Ginger,” Valjean said. A delighted astonishment tinted the clarification, and Javert could feel his heart leap, as if it was attempting to escape his chest in an act of mutiny. 

“I planted it years ago when we first arrived, but never had any luck growing it.” He twisted it around between his fingers, admiring the marvel. “I suppose the luck was just delayed.”

The next series of coughs were so violent Javert was forced to sit; he rasped incomprehensibly, insisting Valjean return inside to find a glass of water, a flimsy excuse so that he could hide the petals in his trouser pockets. He could already imagine Valjean’s unending pity and care, huddling over him, for he knew it well. Soon enough Valjean ushered him inside, ignoring any protest and insisting the garden could wait for the both of them. Javert was just as adamant, reassuring Valjean that there was no need for a physician. 

All the same, he found himself sitting in Valjean’s kitchen, listening to the sound of metal hitting wood. Valjean chopped the ginger in thin slices before throwing it in a pot of heating water, and in short order he was holding a hot cup of tea. 

“Well, was the ginger useful enough for you?” Valjean said. His words were light, but Javert could still sense the worry had not left him. Hoping to assuage his fears, he sipped from the cup; the tea was sweet, but not cloying, the ginger running starkly through. Mercifully, it soothed his raw throat somewhat, and he sighed. 

“As it could be,” he said, taking another gulp. “Thank you.”

For a time, Valjean stared at him, carefully considering Javert with a look most odd before sipping his own tea. “What a strange world. I never thought it had grown, but it had been under the surface this whole time, just waiting.” 

“Stubborn of it to not show itself sooner,” Javert murmured. 

“Perhaps,” Valjean said, a wry smile spreading over his face. As if looking upon the sun itself, Javert felt the need to avert his eyes. “All growing things need their time. A late bloom is a bloom all the same.”

Javert stared down at the tea, the delicate porcelain cradling in his hands. It felt suddenly too fragile in his grip; as if he had any right to holding it at all. He would only manage to mishandle it with inexperienced hands and uncertain words. Why he was even welcome in Valjean’s home was beyond him. There was nausea rising in him, his tongue felt too heavy in his mouth, his chest spiking with pain. 

“If I had happened upon it sooner I would not have been able to share the moment with you.”

Suddenly Javert was standing, setting aside the teacup with a trembling hand. “I think it best if I take my leave now,” Javert said quickly. “I apologize for… well.” He gestured to the garden. “I am certain you can manage without my interference.”

“Javert?” 

Valjean followed him as he walked briskly to the entryway, fumbling into his coats and coughing discreetly as he could into his handkerchief. 

“Javert,” Valjean said, resolute. His hand was wrapped around Javert’s wrist, gentle as before, brows furrowed in regret, concern. So badly Javert wanted to erase it, pull Valjean in his arms and kiss it away. 

No, no. He would not be entertaining these thoughts, would not let the flower perched to spill from his mouth to spill out or the bile rise from his throat. 

“I really must be going.”

Before Valjean could stop him, say anything, he was out the door, coughing up whole flowers every few minutes. It was broad daylight, but no one would pay a sick old man heed as he strode shakily up the steps to his apartment. The strain in his chest was searing now, and he nearly tore off his clothes in his haste, letting violet and red petals scatter over the floorboards. He needed air, needed space in the cramped room; his cravat was off and he wrenched his shirt open as it could be. Running a hand through his hair, he stopped as he spied himself in the looking glass. 

Slowly, he stalked toward the reflection, bringing a hesitant hand to the base of his exposed neck. His breath came in ragged gasps as he stared blankly at the thorny thicket of vines growing through the skin above his heart. Javert could feel, now see, his body revolting against him like some foolish young man, desperate for freedom. A coughing fit rose anew and he collapsed, drawing blood on his palms as he scrambled to fruitlessly rive the vines from his skin.


	2. Chapter 2

As straightforward as Javert was, Valjean could not help but be utterly perplexed by the man. Once predictable as clockwork, Valjean could now never hope to glean anything concerning Javert’s thoughts. Certain days he would closely resemble the old Javert, sitting straight as a board and grumbling about the state of the streets; others, he was meek, uncertain, erratic. Though, it was a welcome change from the chaotic whiplash between bristling anger and empty melancholy in the days of his recovery. A man confined to a bed can only be so cordial. 

Genuinely, Valjean had thought their friendship comfortable; the extent of it was unfamiliar territory for the both of them, but Javert seemed content enough in the arrangement. He knew it was an effort for Javert; it was just as much for himself. To transform the image of Javert in his mind to something altered had its challenges, but he found it all the more pleasant when he could see Javert so agreeable over tea while they admired the garden. To see him come to his defense at a meal with Monsieur Gillenormand. There was something less rigid in Javert, a piece of him that would now bend before it broke. Perhaps it had already broken, and this was the healed scar, flexible and willing to grow. 

Valjean sat at his writing desk, looking out the window for any sign of a tall, dark figure, perhaps a gamin with a message. A week had passed since Javert’s last visit to Rue Plumet, and he had heard nothing from him since. Typically, if Javert were preoccupied with work or otherwise, he would send word to Valjean to assure him of his well being and promise a later visit. There had been no such promise made, and Valjean was beginning to feel an apprehension pool in his stomach, thick with unease. 

It was engraved in Valjean’s very nature to worry. Even in his old age, to calm himself was near warfare, fighting against years of experience living in a state of near panic. He was a skittish bird, ready to take flight at a moment’s notice, always attuned to the possibility of the worst. With Javert, the feeling was kept somewhat at bay. It was an irony of course, to think what might have haunted his dreams not long ago was a guaranteed alleviation of the same terrors. 

Now his heart raced with another kind of fear. The day before, he sent a short message to Javert, hoping he might respond with a simple explanation. Javert was besieged with a time-consuming case, off training young officers, buried in paperwork; any would suffice. But there was nothing. 

He wondered then if his conduct had been too forward, that their closeness was too much to hope for, and Javert had distanced himself in kind. His visits had become sparser in the month, and moreover cut short. It was a more appealing thought than the other that lurked at the back of his mind. Javert had insisted his cough as of late was a change of the season, but Valjean was no fool. If the man were sick, he would never breathe a word of it to Valjean, for he knew the result. Convincing Javert to let a doctor even into his bedchamber after the Seine was a task enough, and Valjean was through with playing nursemaid. He had no regrets in plucking Javert from the river, far from it. All the same, Valjean’s patience could only stretch so far, and Javert was a horrendous patient. 

Still, he surmised with a sinking acceptance that Javert was more than likely sick. What disturbed him was that Javert had sent no note. Perhaps he did not wish Valjean to send for a doctor; it was a fair assumption that Valjean would do so. But it was better, he reasoned, to call upon Javert before sending a poor doctor blindly into a lion’s den. And so, he donned his coat and hat and walked the familiar path to Javert’s apartment. 

It had been many months since his last visit to Javert’s cramped quarters, not since his last lingering weeks of bedrest. As he approached the portress, she recognized him instantly. 

“Monsieur Fauchelevent!” she cried. “How long has it been?”

“Quite a while, Madame. I hope you’ve kept well,” he said, taking off his hat. 

“Well enough, Monsieur. Are you here for the Inspector?”

“Is he in?”

“Why yes,” she said, surprised. “He’s been quite unwell, I assumed you-“

“May I see him, Madame?”

“Well,” she hesitated. “He asked to keep visitors away…”

With that, Valjean managed to put out the most charming smile he could manage, gripping the brim of his hat with a terrible, white-knuckled force. 

“Please, Madame. You know me, and I know how stubborn he is. I am only here to assist; I worry for him.”

After a moment of contemplation, she seemed to agree and began to fish for the keys in her apron. Valjean followed her up the stairs. Quietly, she unlocked the door and stood aside, passing him on her way back down with a curt nod of sympathy. 

At the door he wavered, finally settling on knocking several times rather than walking in unannounced. No answer sounded. Again he knocked, only to hear what sounded like a wracking cough. 

“Javert?” he called. 

Silence hung in the air and Valjean waited, his hand poised on the doorknob. Terror now filled his veins, waiting so helplessly with Javert only a few paces away. It was then that a series of intolerably wretched coughs filled the air that Valjean found himself throwing the door open and walking in. 

All the air in his lungs escaped him as he took in the sight of Javert’s apartment. There were few pieces of furniture in the space; a desk and chair, a modest settee, a bed, a dresser. It was all the same as when Valjean had come to care for an ailing Javert, for he spent little time in his apartment to begin with. What was different were the piles of flowers covering almost every available surface. They littered the floor, piled up in heaps around the bed, filling the room with a most unearthly quality as the sun, peeking through the curtains, made their violet and red hues dance. 

In the center of the bed laid Javert, propped by a wall of pillows and linens, looking utterly bare in only his shirtsleeves and braces. His face was a picture of resigned mortification, exhausted in every sense. Still, his eyes were wide, surely mirroring Valjean’s own expression of complete awe. Without taking his gaze from the sea of petals across the room, Valjean slowly closed the door behind him. 

“Javert,” he breathed. The man did not respond, only staring mutely at his most unexpected company. 

“Did you… you received my notes?” Again, Javert said nothing, but Valjean’s eyes found the crumpled pieces of paper atop the writing desk. They, too, were covered in red petals. 

“Have you taken up gardening then?” Valjean said, unable to keep a slightly crazed laugh from his tone. 

A small cough escaped Javert then. “Something… like that,” he managed. His voice was raw, strained. 

Only then did Valjean stride dazedly to the desk, picking up a blossom and promptly dropping it. 

“ _ Wolf’s-bane? _ ” Valjean said, incredulous. Javert looked at him blankly, evidently not understanding. “Monkshood, Javert? This is used to make one of the most potent poisons…” he trailed off, fixated on the dark stains on the front of Javert’s shirt.

“Javert…” his voice cracked. “Are you well?”

At the words, a look of pain passed over Javert’s face and soon he was doubling over, coughing roughly while clutching at his chest. Valjean was struck then, faced with a broken Javert coughing up what looked like deep, red roses. 

“Does… does it look like it,” he muttered, wiping his mouth as he threw the blossoms aside onto the floor. He paused momentarily, his eyes gradually widening until he looked back up at Valjean, a wild expression taking him. 

“Did you say poison?” Javert asked at a volume Valjean could only faintly discern. 

“Yes,” Valjean said cautiously. 

Sudden enough for Valjean to jump, Javert let out a horrible laugh, his face scrunching in a desperate bestial smile before he buried it in his hands. He laughed silently, his shoulders shaking to the point that Valjean thought him to be sobbing instead. As soon as the laughter stopped, coughs replaced it as several roses and monkshoods were tossed aside in an ever-growing heap beside the bed. 

“Of course they would be poison,” he said in a low voice. “No, no, the river was all wrong. This is more fitting.”

“Javert,” Valjean said. He was walking without thinking towards him, already sitting at the edge of the mattress and bringing a hand to feel his forehead. The motion brought back too many memories of a different Javert, snarling and incensed. This Javert was almost docile, a pained kind of grief across his features. Were he not terrified, he would find temptation to wrap his arms around him, to hold him until the agony faded. He resisted the urge. 

“I should call for a doctor.” He looked at the pile of flowers again. “Perhaps a botanist,” he murmured. 

“A mortician, if you would,” Javert said flatly.

“Javert.”

“No,” he said, firm. “No doctors.” He looked around the room, clearly disquieted. A flush came across his cheeks. Odd, for he had not felt feverish. “Surely you have seen something like this before-“ he paused to cough weakly. “Men falling prey to… emotion.”

“Whatever are you talking of, Javert?” His voice was panicked now, confused. Javert’s eyes widened, unblinking. 

“Is it not typical of—is this not-“ It was then that Valjean saw genuine worry in Javert’s eyes for only a moment. “You have never seen anything like this?”

“No? I—did you say this was because of… emotions?”

They stared at one another silently, and slowly Valjean began to see Javert’s face turn an incredible shade of red. Without warning, he began to cough again, gasping as if he meant to say something, inhibited by the blossoms painstakingly leaving his throat. In a show of concern, Valjean brought a hand to Javert’s shoulder. Javert’s face appeared then, looking into the distance with an air of foreboding that would most certainly petrify any other man enough to let go. He did not. This was hardly the worst he had seen of Javert; he knew it all. 

“Jave-“

“Get out,” he said quietly, voice raged. His head snapped around to look directly at Valjean as anger and something mortified tore through him. “ _ Leave.” _

Tiredly, Valjean looked aside, looking upon the mountain of red and violet on the floor. Reluctantly, he turned back to Javert. 

“If that is what you wish.”

Guilt began to tint Javert’s eyes, which soon spread across his face and through his body as he lowered his head into his hands. 

“Devious,” he said, muffled into his palms. “You know I will not lie.”

It took all of his willpower not to reach out, to pull his hands away and cradle his cheek, run his fingers through his whiskers. Instead he sat, perched uselessly at the edge of the bed and stared sadly at Javert, a dull pang in his chest.

“You will not permit a doctor?”

“No,” Javert said. A pause. “But I will not force you to leave.” A wry, pained smile came across his lips. “I know it a fruitless effort already.”

Something akin to a comfortable silence grew between them, Javert settling on the pillows and taking in deeper and deeper breaths. It brought back images of Javert the year prior, stark in contrast. He was softer now, sharp edges carved down in his tone and his collarbone, the hollow of his cheeks no longer so pronounced. Though he was undoubtedly ill, his color was radiant, oddly full of life. 

Valjean turned to the window, watching as the sun was just beginning its journey downwards. When he turned back, Javert appeared to be drifting into sleep, surely exhausted. 

He reached a hand to clasp Javert’s. “I will return in the morning,” Valjean said. 

A languid nod. Valjean allowed himself a small half-smile and stood, eyes fixed on Javert. In a brash motion, he extended his hand again, this time ghosting his fingers around Javert’s cheek and down to his jaw, feeling the coarse edges of his whiskers. It was an unconscious motion, his arm compelled by the heartbeat he could now hear thumping in his ears. 

Suddenly coming back to himself he retreated, standing and pulling on his coat and hat. He stood by Javert’s side, watching him, and picked up a rose that rested beside him. He admired it, taking in its sweet scent. It was improbable, the whole ordeal. Even accepting such an oddity, how strange it was to think Javert could produce such a lovely thing. Between his fingers the petals were delicate, a softness only found in something safeguarded in a nestle of thorns.

Before he could lose himself in contemplation, he discreetly stowed the blossom in his pocket. Walking to the door, he closed it, quietly as he could, behind him. 

* * *

Valjean’s fingers traced over the spine of a worn book on the shelf and he peered closer, holding a candle close in hand to read its title. The darkness was not so much from night as it was from the early morning. The sun had not yet risen to greet him, for his attempts at a full night of sleep were as difficult to capture as a fleeting moment. 

Dread was a cloud over his head, reminding him of Javert’s wretched cough; the sound still rang in his ears, the bright hues of the flowers still flashing in the back of his eyes. Beside him sat a stack of books: botanical encyclopedias, the odd medical tome he had collected over the years, a few books he thought Javert might like to hear him read aloud. If Javert would not allow a doctor, he could, at the very least, administer what care and knowledge he could until… until his recovery. Javert had conquered more arduous depths in the past. Surely this paled in comparison, despite its strangeness. Flowers were familiar enough to Valjean, and he quietly assured himself that they would manage in any case. 

He crouched down then to peer at the lower shelves, a row of books long since touched. With a flash of the candle, his eye caught a particular spine and he smiled a sad, nostalgic smile. It was an old children’s storybook, tales he once told Cosette in their quiet afternoons in the garden. She would often read to him as well, demonstrating her newly acquired love of reading. He could feel the remnants of pride swelling in his chest as he looked at it now. Gingerly, he added the book to the stack. 

For several hours then, he poured over books until he found it a satisfactory hour to make his way to Javert’s apartment once again. He could see clouds overhead, a storm brewing in the distance. He hastened his pace, silently praying the books could escape unharmed by the weather. 

Javert came to his mind, for he had scarcely left it. Never did he think he would find someone as dear to him aside from his Cosette. But she was of age, off starting her own family, her own life. He thought of himself little outside of his usefulness, how he could offer himself to her and to the world. In the months past, his thoughts had drifted elsewhere.

Javert had become inexplicably careful in his presence, perhaps kind. It was a rough sort of kindness, hidden under layers of gruff comments and lined frowns, but it was still unmistakably there, peeking through the cracks like grass growing through stones. He listened to Valjean, cared for his well-being, sought his company, actively worked to be courteous of him. Even knowing all of Valjean, knowing his very worst. For that reason he could confide in him and knew that Javert understood. Though, he did not confide all. 

Undoubtedly, he treasured this unlikely friendship. Never could he say he possessed a friend, a companion he could speak with without fear. What troubled him was something unnamable, aching in his chest as he watched Javert fret over him in the garden, doze off in a chair as Valjean read. He knew not what he wanted for, only that he wanted, a want dredged up from the most buried depths of himself. 

Valjean was staring at the door to Javert’s tenement. He collected himself and knocked on the door.

“Monsieur Fauchelevant! A blessing to see you back so soon,” the portress said.

Valjean gave a polite nod as his hand went to remove his hat. The other arm was occupied, carrying a stack of books. “I thank you for your hospitality, Madame.” His eyes moved downward to the tray on the kitchen table. “Has the Inspector had his lunch?”

“I meant to take it to his rooms now. The way he is, I leave it outside the door for him.”

“Would you permit me to take it?”

The relief that spread across her face was nowhere near hidden. “I would be glad for it, Monsieur. From the sound of it, his mood has been quite sour.”

Soon, Valjean found himself carrying a precarious tray of broth, bread, and books up the narrow stairway. He paused at the door, now recognizing his inability to knock. 

“Javert?” Valjean called, hoping his voice could make its way through the door. “Your lunch,” he said, maneuvering the door open, pushing it open with the back of his shoulder. 

When he entered, he stopped in his tracks as the door swung shut behind him. Upon this particular intrusion, Javert had seen fit to avert his gaze, looking only at the ceiling as Valjean was forced to remind himself not to drop his precious cargo. 

As the day before, Javert lay prone on the bed, surrounded by pillows of red and violet. Their size and spread had only increased in Valjean’s short absence, but they were hardly the object of his immediate fixation.

Javert’s shirt was open wide, cravat forgone. Not out of any hope of comfort, but in the interest of practicality, he assumed, the garment could accommodate the bushel of vines creeping up his chest, curling around his shoulders and neck. With great reluctance he turned, facing Valjean with an uncharacteristic embarrassment, and showing just enough of his chest to reveal the point at which the greenery was protruding from his skin. 

Valjean dropped the tray. 

At the sound of clattering wood and metal, Javert hissed, closing his eyes and exasperatedly running a hand through his hair. Valjean could not recall if he sputtered out any sort of apology as he bent over to clean up what broth had spilled around his feet. Luckily the books had been spared and he stood, heat climbing his face as he brought it to Javert’s bedside. A long pause stretched between them as Javert stared, daring him to speak of it. 

“Should I inquire?” Valjean asked, a nervous energy overtaking any hope of levity. 

Giving him a hard stare, Javert finally conceded, gesturing for Valjean to take a seat. He pulled up the chair from Javert’s desk and perched at its edge. “They sprouted several weeks ago, but sprung up last night,” Javert said ruefully, “while I was asleep.” He spoke as if scorned, left betrayed by his own body’s course of action. 

It was as Javert spoke that Valjean’s eyes wandered of their own accord, drifting to Javert’s chest. The vines were thorned, the leaves a familiar shape; roses, if he was not mistaken. Some were wilted, others brown and dead towards the top of its growth. Any buds along the greenery were barren and dried. He could discern small cuts on Javert’s chest, hidden as they were by thick, dark hair. 

By the time his eyes reached Javert’s face again, his cheeks were flush with color, an inscrutable expression of confusion, shame across his features. 

“I-“ Valjean started, looking around for where he had set down the books, “I brought some reading material—for entertainment and—well—otherwise.” He could see Javert eyeing the books with an air of suspicion, though he had seemed to calm himself once free of Valjean’s stare. 

“Otherwise?” he parroted. 

“Medical volumes, a few botanical references…” He let his voice trail as Javert’s eyes narrowed. Valjean sighed, meeting Javert’s glare. “Surely you understand, Javert. I cannot sit idly by while you let yourself—well.”

Miserably, Javert stared at him before letting out a cough. He made no attempts at suppressing or hiding it from Valjean’s watch as several full roses, leaves and all, came up from his mouth. The process appeared painful, more difficult, yet, sickeningly, Javert seemed more practiced. A look came across his eyes—only a hint—that Valjean had scarcely seen in Javert before: fear. 

“There have been more roses as of late,” Javert muttered, eyes not meeting Valjean’s as he stared at the new flowers in his lap. “More than the monkshood.” 

“I see,” Valjean said, placidly as he could. “Why don’t I... why don’t I spend some time with a few medical texts while you eat. Then, I could read aloud some other material.”

Several emotions—a novelty, Valjean thought—crossed his face as he looked at the bread warily as a foe. Slowly he nodded, a faint blush rising as he took his lunch and let out a small cough. 

“Very well.”

The more Valjean read, the tighter his chest became, the quicker his heart raced. It was to be expected of course, that no books held the answers he sought; the act of flipping through pages of useless information did nothing to calm him as he watched Javert cough and vomit again and again through the afternoon. During the worst he did what he could to comfort, whispering nonsense and rubbing his shoulders and back as he sat doubled over, retching. 

Though he thought Javert may push him away, flinch under his touch, he did neither, accepting it with a yielding look. Valjean thought it most unlike him, yet this was now Javert, so utterly changed from the first time Valjean sat at his bedside. In time, Valjean recognized the strangeness in his expression to be trust, of all things, however hesitant.

Soon hopelessly frustrated with reading, Valjean set aside the volumes of research and went about wordlessly cleaning the apartment. Javert watched him with that same look about his face as he began to gather the flowers, so carelessly tossed aside, and arranged them. Sure to be careful with the poisonous blossoms, he made a clear path through the room and cleared the wreckage surrounding Javert’s bed. Throughout the process Javert coughed up several more, which were only swiftly taken and added to the formation. It was still quite a sight, but an improvement nonetheless. 

Once he sat, he again spied Cosette’s storybook and picked it up, inspecting it closely before looking at Javert. With his nod of approval, he began to read aloud the first of the tales. They were all old fables, stories warped and added to with time over the country, collected and published; many he had heard variations of as a child, his hometown having their own changes in details or endings. Javert seemed to contemplate the same; his shoulders were not set so rigidly even as he fought the continued coughing fits, and so Valjean considered it a worthy diversion. The picture—Valjean reading and Javert listening intently—was enough to make the moment resemble normalcy. 

It was when Valjean turned the page to the next story that he stopped, staring at the chapter title. In the case of most of these stories, he recalled them vaguely, remembering their details only as he made his way through, some more strongly depending on Cosette’s interest. Some, she had insisted on reading over and over, while others were a more rare treat. 

The chapter before him was one of the latter category, something lost to time in his memory, and not a tale ever heard even in his youth. 

_ But this one is so sad, Father,  _ Cosette said. Her protest was heartfelt as she sat sprawled on the grass, out of sight of the sisters who might chastise her. 

_ Ah, but sad tales can teach us invaluable lessons, my dear.  _ It was with Cosette’s ceding sigh that he began to read the first lines of the story of mysterious flowers and a love unrequited. 

Javert’s voice, slightly raw, pulled him alarmingly from his reveries, as if he had splashed ice water into his face. “Are there any more, then?”

“...Perhaps that is enough for tonight,” Valjean said, closing the book. He dared not meet Javert’s eye. Instead he focused on the window, thanking God that it had become late in the day. “Your landlady should be preparing your dinner, I suppose.”

A cough. Another rose. “Yes,” Javert replied. 

“Then I shall leave you for the evening,” Valjean said. Nothing in his voice, his demeanor, betrayed the hysteria simmering under the surface of his calm; he intended to remove himself before it would inevitably boil, and stood.

Something of worry rose in Javert’s expression, but he offered no dissent. Valjean realized he must have gone pale, and hurried to assure him. “I will return… I will return in the morning.”

“Of course,” Javert said. He did not appear placated. 

Valjean was half-conscious then of his leg dragging slightly across the floor as he pulled the books into his arms and set off, praying that Javert would not notice. It was a useless hope, observant as Javert was. He ignored the words of Javert’s portress, could not recall his walk home, was scarcely aware of anything until he closed his door behind him and let the books fall to the floor. One thought eclipsed all else: Javert was in love. 

For hours he poured over the storybook at his writing desk, desperate to prove his faded memory wrong. It was a simple enough fairy tale: a peasant man falls in love with a woman who does not return his devotion. He soon develops an enigmatic illness, coughing up tulips. After an unsuccessful confession, the man lets plants overtake his lungs until his demise. He dies in a field, becoming a tree surrounded by flowers that the woman spends the years admiring. A cautionary tale of the dangers of losing oneself to unrequited passion, and an unhappy one at that. 

Hands trembling, he fingered through the pages with rising panic, soon having to light a candle to see the words that were beginning to blur together. There was no way conceivable to deny it, that this was the same tortuous affliction. Odd as it was, Valjean was forced to accept it as reality. What was most difficult to parse, though, was what it meant in regards to the cause of Javert’s illness. 

His stomach sank seemingly endlessly, leaving him with the acute sensation of falling from a great height as he considered it. Aside from himself, Javert had no one he socialized with. Coworkers were inconsequential in Javert’s personal life, and he had no personal life to speak of; the only dinners he attended were with Valjean. He spoke not with his neighbors, did not attend services without Valjean. No, there was no other possible object of Javert’s affections, and it was preposterous to suggest otherwise. 

Thinking of Javert then, choking on his own emotions, saying nothing, it made Valjean ache as if someone had punched him squarely in the stomach. The man was sick—or worse—because of Valjean. Of course, he knew Javert would take issue with his assessment, but he was the cause regardless. How long had it been? He wracked his mind, trying to recall the first time Javert had coughed, how long he had been so blind. All that came was Javert stubbornly helping him organize his library, the care with which he helped Valjean from a carriage, the way he gave his rare, lovely laugh only in private. The surprising kindness, which he worked so obviously to nurture, that filled his touch. 

_ Oh.  _

It came to him then—how could Javert be afflicted so? Though he was only just putting such thoughts to concrete words, he longed to be with Javert, to see him, speak with him. He cherished Javert, he loved him. Surely that love was not unrequited. 

Suddenly he stood from his chair, striding to his coat which he had thrown unceremoniously on the settee. From the pocket he pulled the rose he had plucked the day before from Javert’s apartment. He peered through the darkness, staring at the rose that was already beginning to wilt. Palpable, irrefutable proof of Javert’s love, forced out of him like a burst dam. 

A dawning horror filled him, leaving him weak at the knees as he thought of the vines spilling from Javert’s chest. He did not believe Valjean could return it. Javert would die, maintaining that Valjean had no such feelings for him. Javert would  _ die.  _

Fumbling instantly with his coat, he shoved it over his shirtsleeves, damning the waistcoat, and broke into a near run to the garden. 

* * *

“Monsieur,” the portress said, concern tinting her tired expression and admonishment on her tongue. “What is the hour?”

“Far too late I will admit, Madame. I must apologize, but I need to see-“

“Yes, yes,” she said. Setting her candle aside, she pulled out her keyring, singling out a particular key and handing it to Valjean. “I trust you will take care of him, Monsieur.”

“I thank you Madame, and I again apologize for the late hour.”

It took all his restraint not to bolt up the staircase, to shout Javert’s name. Instead, he took two stairs at a time, finally knocking quiet enough for the neighbors, but loud enough for Javert to hear. He did not wait for an answer. 

He opened and closed the door swiftly. “Javert?” he whispered, fearing that he may be asleep. In the darkness he stumbled, finally finding a match and lighting a nearby candle. 

Whether he was awake or not was difficult to tell, for his form was almost entirely obscured with the mass of vines that had grown like a fortress around him. There was no hiding the anguish in Valjean’s voice as he cried out. 

“Javert!”

A surprised laugh that may have been a sob came from across the room. With the candlelight, Valjean could see his shirt torn and spotted with blood. Letting out a whimper of pain, he sat up as well as he could, coughing weakly all the while. 

“Would morning not suffice, Valjean?” he said, his voice breaking. 

Valjean stared at him, taking in the tormented expression across Javert’s face. Without another word, he shed his coat, taking out the trimming shears in the inside pocket, and walked towards Javert. 

“No,” Javert deadpanned. Valjean came closer still. “No, do not touch me Valjean, I swear I-”

He stopped at Javert’s bedside, taking him in closer as he set the candle down and turned on the nearby lamp. Flames jumped to life, reflections leaping across Javert’s fearful eyes. Valjean could immediately see the pain in them. 

“Let me do this, Javert.” His voice no longer wavered. “I was a pruner once.”

“I know.” Javert would not quite meet his eyes. In the light Valjean saw how thoroughly covered he was, how tangled the bushel had become, how tightly it wrapped around Javert, as if it meant to choke the life out of him. 

“Then will you trust me?”

The silence in the room was impenetrable, suffocating. Still Javert could not look at him, for he had shielded himself with a wall of thorns. But Valjean was accustomed to such things, knew his position well enough, for he had the scars as evidence. Beneath any rotted wood were roots ready to grow under the right hand. 

Deliberately, he reached his hand into the nestle of thorns to cup Javert’s cheek. He could feel the barbs scrape at his skin, but kept on unflinchingly. He could hear Javert protesting, whispering, perhaps shouting, his name, but he disregarded it as his other hand followed. Together his arms cleared a path to Javert’s face. Now Javert had no other place to look, no means to escape Valjean’s stare. Despair turned to a doubtful confusion between Valjean’s cradling hands. And then he was leaning down, his lips clumsily finding Javert’s. 

The kiss was soft; though Valjean had been free of expectation, the give of Javert’s lips still struck him, leaving warmth in his chest. He did not linger, for there was work to be done, and pulled away while his hands hovered at the edges of his whiskers. Javert’s eyes were wide in utter shock, searching for something he could not piece together in Valjean’s face. A question seemed to be on his lips, though he could not voice it. 

“Tell me if it hurts,” Valjean said quietly. He leaned back and retrieved the shears from the table and set to work. 

Much of the growth, tangled and sprawling, was dead. Carefully he followed the path of each stem, running his fingers along the thistle-covered lengths until he found the first signs of life. This was no simple task, as each was intertwined so wholly with its brothers, all of which snaked around Javert in a vise. Yet he tended each and every one with caution, clipping away pieces until he reached green, at which point he made a precise, angled cut, following the direction of the bulbs. Javert made no sound until he clipped at the edge of that first sign of life. There was a sharp intake of breath, and Valjean feared he may have brought on pain. He stopped momentarily, looking at Javert. The breath he let out shook, his eyes tightly shut as a tear ran down his cheek. 

“Does it-“

“No,” Javert whispered. “No.”

The next time Valjean hit a spot where dead, brittle vine became green and vital, Javert let out a sob. Valjean’s heart ached for him, and he tried to soothe with a gentle hand, catching Javert’s tears as they fell. Still, it did not deter him, and he continued the arduous process with sedate determination. 

How strange it was, for Javert to allow him to hold what was surely his very soul, to trim at its dead edges so that it might tentatively thrive. The act, so familiar, so practiced in his youth, now felt unspeakably intimate. In time he found himself joining Javert, silent tears trickling down his cheeks. He felt as if he were naked, exposed, and was comforted only in the assurance that Javert was just as bare. 

It was when he had reached the last of the vines, all trimmed so short as to barely be called a bush, Javert lifted his arm, cupping Valjean’s jaw with a ghostly touch. Valjean paused enough for Javert to look upon him, marveling at him like something from heaven. His fingers only grazed over his cheek, the shell of his ear, as if he were sure he would disappear should he touch him fully. Valjean let out a shaking laugh and could feel the wetness on his face as he leaned into Javert’s hand. After holding him, he let go, allowing Valjean access to the last of the dead branches. 

The shrub was small, but strong, protruding from Javert’s chest. Valjean put his palm to the base, feeling the resolute beat of Javert’s heart underneath. Its steady rhythm pulled him into a lull, and he could feel exhaustion tug at the edges of his mind. He knew it bold, knew it entirely indecent, but he clambered into the bed and wrapped his arms around Javert. There was a squirm of protest, a hurried reminder of the thorns, but it was impossible to care, feeling Javert’s heat pressed so close against him. It was with the sound of Javert’s heart reverberating in his head that he fell into sleep, dreamless and deep. 

* * *

The scent woke Valjean first. It was sweet, enveloping him as he breathed slowly, dredging himself from the last vestiges of sleep. The bed beneath him was unfamiliar, the arms around him less so. Reluctant to open his eyes so quickly, he blinked, letting in the morning light in bit by bit until the whiteness before him came into focus. 

All at once, his eyes snapped open, taking in the sight of white roses a mere breadth away from his nose. Dimly he registered Javert’s arms around him and his own around Javert’s middle. He looked up at Javert’s face, peacefully sleeping, light from the window falling on him. There were no lines of pain in his expression, that insurmountable weight lifted from his chest. Javert understood, Javert knew. At the thought, he could have wept out of joy. 

“Javert,” Valjean whispered. He did not stir. “Javert,” he said louder, his voice cracking. His breath came in quicker, and he could feel a cry building in his throat as Javert blearily opened his eyes. They grew wider and wider, flashing back and forth with increasing lucidity between Valjean and the roses bursting from his chest. 

“Oh,” Javert said, staring at the roses. He looked back to Valjean, his face flushing. “Oh.” The lightness of it all, the brilliance of the love shared between them seemed to unfold for him as he stared in wonderment. 

“They’re beautiful,” Valjean managed through sobbing laughter. 

Javert, at a loss for words, held him in his gaze before moving his arms to hold his face instead, wiping aside tears with his thumb. He smiled an uncertain smile then, gums and teeth and laughter and suddenly, Javert was kissing him, pulling them together. Softly he mumbled an apology regarding the thorns, but Valjean could not bring himself to care about the sharpness pressing into his chest, how wrinkled his clothes surely were, how late in the day it likely was. Nothing mattered but for the pleasant ache in his chest, the taste of Javert’s lips, and the sweet smell of roses between them. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'm most active over on Twitter @genderfeel and a little bit on Tumblr. Thanks for reading, hope everyone is doing well 💕
> 
> EDIT: [Everyone go look at Vin's art for this IT'S KILLING ME, THANKS. ](https://twitter.com/vinrebelle/status/1261350500810850305?s=20)
> 
> EDIT 2: [Also go look at Cat's art, I'm overjoyed to see all this amazing art!!!](https://twitter.com/_nimportequoi_/status/1269729950430646272?s=20)


End file.
